


atque vale

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aleron Lives, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: Aleron has lost one son. He tries to make do with the other.





	atque vale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lileura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lileura/gifts).



They had stripped the armour from his body. 

Plate being expensive, it was hardly surprising. Still, the sight of him came somehow as a shock. Auguste had never seemed constrained by his body; he had always seemed to fill a room, even when he had been just a boy with a voice that broke and that room full of counsellors. 

It was impossible not to look to his side, impossible not to contemplate that another body might have lain there instead. 

He’d have mourned for his younger son too. But he had always been closer to Auguste, and besides, Auguste was – had been – of an age to lead troops into battle, and Laurent not yet grown. But it could never have been an exchange. Laurent had been at Marlas, but at the back of the fighting, unbloodied. Aleron would never have allowed him to take the risk. 

He was looking down at his brother’s face. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but he was already beginning to cry again. Aleron repressed a sigh. 

Philippe had said it was understandable: they had been unusually close. That was true enough, for Aleron could hardly recall ever spending that much time with Philippe in his youth, though they had been much closer in age, nor could he imagine that he would ever have lamented for him thus. Missed him on occasion, when he thought of what counsel his brother might have given him that his Council was not providing, but little more than that. Laurent wept like he was the one who had lost a son. 

It might have been better to have sent him down with his brother instead. Philippe seemed to know what to do with the boy, while all of Aleron’s attempts seemed to come to nothing. Tales he remembered fondly from his childhood Laurent did not care for; his own interest in and knowledge of horses was limited to riding and providing them with rudimentary care. He could fight adequately for his age, that was true, but when one remembered Auguste at that age, taller, his fringe curling in that ridiculous hairstyle he had sported that summer, one could only despair. 

Philippe might have known whether to put an arm around Laurent’s shoulder and hold him close, or whether that would be no comfort to him at all. But Aleron had wanted – he would never see his son again. It had seemed right that they should have to face this together. 

But it would be of little use if Laurent meant to cry through it all. He was the heir now, and long since not a child who could weep in public with nobody thinking it amiss. But no, Aleron reminded himself, and for a minute was struck again by the thought of Auguste, who had always claimed the world of his brother and his developing abilities. He was a sensitive boy to be sure, prone to unhappiness over things that hardly signified, but he had controlled himself adequately at court functions. 

The boy wiped his eyes and bent down over Auguste’s body. He flinched as his hand came down to squeeze Auguste’s clasped hands for the last time. The cold. 

He had only seen his mother dead. Aleron remembered them, and even now, standing there, he might almost have convinced himself that no time had moved at all. Laurent had grown, he himself had gone a little grey, but if he looked away from the body, he might have told himself that Auguste was just behind them or had turned back to instruct the guards. But Auguste had been by his brother’s side, his hair falling down as he bent down to kiss his mother for the last time, and the body that lay before them now could not be mistaken by reason of either sex or age.

Hennike had been young to die. He had thought it a great misfortune. Looking back on it, the memory of that grief had faded. Here before him now lay his son, the pride of his life, whom his brother could ill replace. 

The pain of it could have choked him. He had been a lively boy, running off to the cries of his attendants. He had swung Laurent high into the air when the boy had been a toddler, swung him around as though on a swing. 

Hennike had laughed, and spoken of the grandchildren they might have. He had laughed to hear her talk of it, for they too had been young still. But surely Auguste would make a fine alliance to the benefit of Vere, and the borders would be safe, and his people with them, just as Aleron’s own marriage had bolstered Vere’s position.

But no, he could not let himself linger on that. The border, Delfeur, all the humiliating details there that were left still to be finalised. His son was dead and gone, and Delfeur too with him. 

Tears sprung to his eyes, for the loss of one or the other or both at once. Laurent, his head bent down as his brother’s had been, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest, did not see. He kissed his brother’s forehead, rested a hand against the line of his hair. His lips moved, though Aleron could not make out the words. 

His expression as he looked up was one Aleron had never seen on him before. His voice, though quiet, carried through the silent chamber, and raised goosebumps over Aleron’s skin. 

“I’ll avenge him,” he said. “I swear it.”

Aleron thought of pointing out to him that he was not half the warrior Auguste had been, that where Auguste had failed he could not hope to succeed. But Laurent’s face was splotched with the marks of his tears, and Aleron, touched by the sentiment, had not the heart to do so. 

Besides, he reminded himself, there were other ways of finishing off a man. 

The thought of possible success comforted him a little, and he reached out for his son, who stood now shivering a little, as though his resolution had taken all the warmth from him. He took him by the arm and, pointing this out, bid him out of the chamber.


End file.
